by Robert Ryan
Faran had not forgotten. Of late, his own skill with magic had grown, but he knew he would need every advantage he could get, and he would be forever grateful to Aranloth for giving him both sword and armor.
Ferla must have been thinking just as he was. “I miss Aranloth,” she said.
“We all do,” Kareste replied. “But we’ll miss him more before this is done.”
11. You are Beyond Good
Asana came at him, his thin sword a ribbon of bright death in the early-morning air. Faran spun away, trying to avoid him but also Kubodin coming in from the side.
They both sparred him today, and he felt the pressure of facing not just two opponents, but two who were skilled beyond the dreams of most warriors.
Kubodin often watched, though rarely joined the training sessions. But today Asana had called him over and asked him to put aside his axe and participate. For that, Faran was grateful. The axe was the little man’s weapon of choice, and he would have been even more dangerous with it. Yet it was not very suitable for sparring, although Faran knew he must learn to face all sorts of weapons.
Instead of the axe, Kubodin had retrieved a broadsword from the stockpile of weapons that they used in their training. It was not a gentleman’s weapon as was Asana’s blade. It was thick and heavy, and it was used to bash through armor, helms and shields.
Yet the wiry little man still used it with incredible skill. He should not have had the strength to use such a heavy weapon with so great accuracy and dexterity, but it was not the only surprising thing.
Kubodin had taken off his nondescript tunic, and sparred with a bare chest. Sweat glistened over his taut skin, and there was not a shred of fat on his hard body. But that same skin was scarred in many places. Swords and daggers had taken their toll. There was, perhaps, an axe wound over one of his bony shoulders too. But there were other marks also, and Faran did not think they came from blades at all. They were the claw and bite marks of some beast, and a ferocious animal it must have been.
But Kubodin was here, and that meant his enemies were dead.
Asana reached him first though, that thin ribbon of steel flashing through the air. Faran deflected it with Crane Arcs its Wings, a technique he had learned from Asana and liked. It suited his long arms.
Sparks flashed from the blades. He had not quite got the move right, for there should have been less solid contact. Yet Asana was quick, and what almost worked with him would fully work with someone less skilled.
Faran tried a counterattack. Moving into The Swallow Dips Low, he sunk his bodyweight and struck toward Asana’s knees. Almost, he thought he would strike the man and began to pull his blow. But he should have known better.
Asana’s blade came down at the last moment, perfectly deflecting his strike and flicking back toward Faran’s throat. He staggered away, losing his balance.
It was not graceful. And it sent him into the path of Kubodin whose heavy blade lumbered through the air toward his head. Slower than Asana’s, but deadly for the force behind it, that blade might even kill him despite his helm.
Yet again, he somehow staggered out of the way and maneuvered so they could only come at him one at a time.
This type of sparring was dangerous. The weapons were real, even if they all held back from their full speed and strength. Especially Asana. Yet it was a risk worth taking. It was not possible to learn how to fight without sparring. Wooden weapons were the beginning of this, but being of wood and not deadly it could not simulate a real fight. The fear was not there. The edge of wariness was not built. Confidence against a true opponent was not grown.
And despite the fact that Faran was losing here, his confidence soared. Asana was perhaps the greatest swordsman alive. Kubodin was greatly skilled, maybe even better than the Kingshield Knights. They attacked him together, and he was still holding them off.
As he edged to the side again, trying to stop them both coming at him at once, always trying to make one opponent get in the way of the other, he caught a glimpse of Ferla.
She stood well to the side, out of their practice area. But her eyes were wide and there was concern on her face. She worried for him, even as he had worried for her before when it had been her turn.
He decided to take the attack to Asana. Driving forward in Tempest Blows the Dust, he pressed home the momentary advantage he had bought by catching his opponent between himself and Kubodin.
Asana showed no emotion. He could have been strolling through the gardens, yet his eyes narrowed and he deftly sidestepped, avoiding both Faran’s attack and bumping into Kubodin.
But that cleared the way for Kubodin to race in, which he did with a bloodcurdling scream.
It was startling, and Faran knew intuitively its purpose. It was designed to intimidate and instill fear. But he was having none of that.
He sidestepped to the left, angling now to keep Kubodin between him and Asana, and lunged forward with a stabbing motion.
Kubodin checked his advance and smashed his broadsword down against Faran’s blade. There was a mighty crash of steel against steel, but Faran was already moving.
Whipping his blade up in a loop he struck for Kubodin’s neck.
And he pulled the blow, for Kubodin had not reacted in time and would have been dead in a real fight.
Kubodin looked stunned, then withdrew laughing wildly.
“Hey! Good work!” he called out.
But the sparring was not over. Asana came forward nimbly, the point of his blade circling in the air. This was a trick intended to shift an opponent’s attention onto the blade and away from the hips and shoulders which usually signaled when an attack was initiated.
So it was that Faran was not caught by surprise when Asana dropped low and slashed sideways with his blade. Yet the move was still blindingly quick and he only just managed to step back and avoid it.
But in his haste to retreat, he stumbled and fell. Asana pounced on him, swift as a plummeting hawk, and Faran found the tip of the other man’s blade hovering next to his neck before he could even think about scrambling to his feet or even defending himself from the ground.
A moment Asana stood above him, then he stepped away and smoothly sheathed his sword. He leaned forward and helped Faran to his feet.
“You did well,” Asana congratulated him. “I dare say Kubodin was surprised.”
Kubodin shuffled forward, pulling his tunic back on over his head.
“Just in case anyone is interested, the sword is not my favored weapon. With an axe, well that’s a different matter.”
“Peace, my friend,” Asana said. “You were beaten, and that is an end to it. When he can beat you regularly with the sword, then you can change to the axe. That should make for some interesting sparring.”
Faran did not want to do that. Kubodin was greatly skilled, but pulling a blow from an axe in sparring was very difficult, and that would make it even more dangerous than what they had just done. But he would not improve unless he pushed himself.
Ferla came over, and she was grinning. She put her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek, something that she had never done before.
“Well done, Faran,” she said quietly.
Kubodin was not so quiet. He whistled loudly and slapped his thighs.
Ferla arched an eyebrow at him. “What’s so amusing?”
“Hey! Why should he get the hugs? I’m the one that nearly died.”
Ferla eyed him a moment, then she stepped forward and hugged him, also kissing him on the cheek.
The little man went quiet, but for the first time that Faran had seen Asana laughed himself, and his eyes lit up with mirth.
Kubodin’s tanned face turned red, and he walked off muttering to himself in a language they had never heard.
Faran was amazed at the transformation in Asana. But as swiftly as the mirth had come, it disappeared. He was his calm self again, showing nothing on his face. But there was a lightness to his movements as he drew his sword again.
&n
bsp; “Come. Let Kubodin alone. You have both won battles there, for he is not easily embarrassed. But he was not expecting that.” He glanced at Faran. “Nor you, I suspect. But our training is not done.”
“What will we do now?” Faran asked.
“Now, you will both attack me. You have earned the right.”
So saying, he edged toward them with soft steps, looking like some predator out of nature, at the one time both eternally patient and also ready to leap into attack.
Ferla drew her sword, and a look of determination masked her face now. This was the warrior Ferla, and the huntress he had known in Dromdruin valley was gone.
Faran moved to the side, trying to situate Asana so that he was surrounded. But the swordsman moved even as he did, the tip of his blade flickering out in a slice that nearly had Faran, but even as the blade cut the air near his neck the master pivoted and struck out at Ferla.
She barely stopped the blow, bringing her sword up at the last moment to inelegantly block the strike.
Asana followed up the attack, his sword a blur, and Ferla retreated. She did not back away in a straight and predictable line, but instead zigzagged. It was to no avail.
Asana’s sword rang against the top of her helm. It could just as easily have been a killing stroke to her unprotected neck. But even as that blow landed he rolled to the ground, avoided Faran’s own attack and leaped toward him.
The man was a blur of speed. Faran barely saw the blow that rang against his own helm, and he did not see at all the simultaneous kick that struck his knee. The first would have been lethal, but the second was dangerous too. It was nothing more than a light tap, but it was at such an angle that it could have torn the joint apart if delivered with power. That would also prove fatal in a swordfight, for a man who stood on one leg could not prevail against an agile attacker.
It was silent atop the mountain, and only the whispering breeze through the garden could be heard. Faran could not believe how fast Asana was, and a glance at Ferla revealed that she too was in awe of the man.
Into the silence, Kareste spoke. No one had seen her approach.
“Aranloth told me how good you were. But he misspoke. You are beyond good.”
Asana tilted his head in acknowledgement of the compliment.
“Am I a match for Brand though?”
“Perhaps. But he is a hard man to beat. And he has use of magic.”
“But he would not use it against such as I, who cannot defend against it?”
“No, he would never do that.”
“I thought not. A pity that all men are not like him.”
The look of sadness that so often seemed to come to Asana’s face was there now, stronger than ever. Faran wondered what the cause was, and if there was anything he could do to help.
12. Live or Die
Clouds wreathed the mountain top, and there was a chill in the air despite it being midsummer. But Nuril Faranar, the Lonely Watchman, remained as unpredictable as all mountains were.
Even as Faran and Ferla jogged down a steep track on the southern slope, the clouds gave way and the bright morning sun shone upon them. Yet the grass was slick with dew, and they were wary of their footing.
This grew worse. Only a little while later, the clouds returned and a drizzle of rain fell. This was accompanied by a piercing breeze that cut through their armor like ice and chilled them to the bone.
But they were fit and strong, and they ran on, if more slowly so they could pick their steps on the wet grass with care.
Asana did not believe much in running to stay fit. “A fight that cannot be won in the first few moments is one in which you may die,” he had told them often enough. “Skill outweighs fitness by a factor of a thousand to one.”
They did not disagree with him. But they loved to run, and remaining fit also meant they could practice sword patterns and spar for longer periods, which quickened their training in the end.
They had done all that early this morning, and Asana had let them go for the run they desired. But there would be more training for them when they returned.
The clouds parted again, and the wind dropped. Rain still fell for a while out of a seemingly blue sky, but it too soon passed and the air felt fresh and alive.
Southward, the smudge of forest on the far horizon that was Halathar became clear. Faran longed to walk amid those trees, for the forest was a matter of legend, and it was said many fair creatures of the old world yet lived there that had died out in the rest of Alithoras. He did not think it would ever happen though, for he had other strings pulling him toward a different fate.
They did not go too far down the mountain. It was a day’s climb back up again, nor did they wish to delay their training with Asana, and after him with Kareste. So they stopped on a green patch of grass overshadowed by an oak tree, one of the few they had ever seen on the mountain.
The cold had stunted the tree’s growth, but it looked to Faran to be an old, old tree. Its leafy boughs provided shelter from the rain that threatened to return, and the gnarled trunk was large enough that they could both sit down together and lean their backs against it.
“It’s strange,” Ferla said. “In a way I feel at home. I’ve never been here before, but my ancestors lived all around. They knew these lands like we knew Dromdruin, and called them home. Somehow, though I can’t explain it, I feel a part of that.”
Faran looked out at the view. He had felt something similar to her, but had not found words to describe it as well as she had. It was an eerie feeling of coming home to a place he had never been.
“I know what you mean,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s not just that our ancestors lived and died here. They fought wars here, faced creatures of the Shadow far greater and darker than anything we have seen ourselves. Sorcery was unleashed upon them. And somehow they survived. They changed here under those influences, and all that they became was born right here, in this very place.”
Ferla leaned against him as she often did, shoulder to shoulder.
“We have a lot to live up to, don’t we?”
It was true. Somehow, they had become a link in the long fight against evil. Their ancestors had started it, but it continued now. By some quirk of fate they had become involved with a figure of legend like Aranloth, and with a lòhren like Kareste. On the other side were creatures of sorcery and knights.
“Do you believe in destiny?” Ferla asked quietly.
“I’m not sure. Maybe. It seems to me though that a person makes their own destiny. But do they really make it, or are their choices foreordained and they only think they make them?”
Ferla sighed. “Answering a question with other questions isn’t a straight answer.”
He laughed. “Well, what do you think?”
She leaned in a little closer. “Aranloth told me this, once. He said that a house had walls and windows and a roof. But it was the person who walked in through the door and lived there that made it into a home. He claimed destiny was like that. Circumstances created a need for a certain thing to happen, and someone stepped into the role.”
Faran thought on that. It was not something the old man had ever said to him, but he sensed Aranloth’s attitude in it.
“That seems as good as any way of looking at it, I suppose. Why the sudden interest in destiny though?”
She looked away. “There you go again, asking questions instead of giving opinions. When will you commit yourself to a solid answer?”
He laughed at that, but it did occur to him that she had just done the same thing. She had avoided his question by asking one of her own.
They sat in companionable silence for a while.
Farther down the slope, a fox emerged from a group of shrubs and trotted without haste, but obvious determination, on some errand known only to it. The creature’s red coat was darkened by water, more likely picked up from slinking through the grass than directly from any rain.
“Going back to its den after the night’s hunt,” Ferla
whispered.
That was likely true. No doubt it had covered a lot of ground as well, maybe even stalking the lower slopes because there were more food sources for it there than on this part of the mountain.
The fox entered a slight gulley, barely visible from where they watched, and was gone from sight. It did not emerge again, and Faran hoped it had found its home. He wished too that one day he would find his own.
Ferla ran her hand back and forth down the leather of her boot, a gesture she often made when she was content. But it abruptly stopped, and a few moments later she spoke.
“How long before they find us again?” she asked.
Faran knew who she meant. Lindercroft would not stop hunting them. All the more so because they had escaped him twice. There was something personal between them now, some fight that would never cease until either he or they had won. Nor would the king leave them alone.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “But I feel what you feel. It’s coming. One day, somehow, they’ll find us and what was begun in Dromdruin will be finished.”
“You make it sound like we’ll lose.”
He took hold of her hand in his own. “I didn’t mean that. I just meant that we’ll fight them again, especially Lindercroft.”
“And what then, Faran? Will we win?”
He did not answer straight away. To her, he could only tell the truth. He needed no vow, no promise, to know that. She was who she was and he respected her. There would only ever be the truth between them.
“I don’t know. But neither do they. They fear us, Ferla. Why, I’m not sure. But they do, and we’ve learned things. Swords and lòhrengai, steel to counter steel and magic to offset sorcery. Live or die, we’ll fight them. And just maybe we’re already ready. But they haven’t found us yet, and every day we grow in skill.”
“I’m not sure, Faran. Sometimes I feel invincible. Other days I fear them.” She leaned in even closer.
“Whatever happens, we’ll be together. I fear them too, but I promise, they fear us just as much.”
It was time that they got back to running, but just now Faran did not want to go anywhere. He felt close to Ferla, even closer than normal.